


Grace of the Loa - Shango

by mneiai



Series: Grace of the Loa [4]
Category: Warcraft - All Media Types, World of Warcraft
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Don't Stay Away From The Voodoo, M/M, Mixing Magical Lore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-01
Updated: 2018-02-01
Packaged: 2019-03-12 04:26:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 977
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13539678
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mneiai/pseuds/mneiai
Summary: Tyrathan and the Darkspears have what they need to bring Vol'jin back.





	Grace of the Loa - Shango

**Author's Note:**

> I honestly write most of these on my phone on the subway and then post them past my bedtime so sorry for typos and whatnot.
> 
> Technically I have 2 more parts to this written, but might just stop here?

Tyrathan stood in a shadowy place, the one where he had met Bwonsamdi, but the Loa was not in sight. As he walked forward, he noticed a bright red string wrapped around his wrist, down his hand, encircling his fingers. The end of it trailed off into the shadows, but no matter how far he walked it stayed taut.

He woke up covered in cold sweat, not sure if he was frightened or not. Just days before, Tyrathan’s dreams had been insubstantial things, like brushes with something more he couldn't quite touch. On the ship, they grew stronger, bolder. He began to remember more and more of them. 

They would reach the Echo Isles that day and he didn't need anymore sense of foreboding than he already had--to raise the dead, someone well and truly dead, could have consequences. 

None of the trolls seemed to share his opinion. They'd been celebrating the night before and he was sure, when he made his way to the deck, that most of them were still drunk. He supposed he couldn't blame them for having such an odd relationship with death, considering their gods. 

By midday they had reached the main island, Tyrathan carrying the urn of Vol’jin’s ashes towards the ceremonial grounds he’d been shown before, followed by the others. All around them, the Darkspears were celebrating, dancing and singing as they prepared to welcome their chieftain back into the world of the living. It brightened Tyrathan’s own mood, reminding him of how nice it would be to have Vol’jin back.

There was the familiar group of witch doctors and shadow hunters awaiting them, larger than ever before as Tyrathan imagined people came from all over to assist. 

“You’ll lie in da center, here, beside da remains.” Tyrathan glanced where she pointed, then back at the witch doctor in front of him.

“...I will? Why am I a part of this?”

The trolls exchanged looks. “You be da one who can lead Vol’jin’s soul back ‘ere.”

Tyrathan thought of the dream, and the string, and shuddered. But, after more clarification, he still found himself lying in the sand with his eyes closed, being sprinkled with potions as the trolls chanted.

Even though he felt far too anxious to sleep, he found his mind being dragged down into that shadowy place once more. Except now he was aware of where he was. And what he had to do.

He began to walk in the direction of the thread, focusing his intent on Vol’jin. He imagined his rasping voice, his skin under his hands the few times they touched, the thrill of fighting beside someone at his own level. Of the quiet sadness in Vol’jin’s eyes when Tyrathan announced he’d be returning to his family, of the ache in his chest of watching from the monastery as Vol’jin left.

The string stayed taut, the world changing, just a little. Through the shadows, Tyrathan thought he could see trees, or something like them. And he could hear noises, in the distance, a quiet cacophony he couldn’t interpret. 

“You be coming a long way to see me. Farther than jus’ coming to Duraton woulda been.” The shadows seemed to part around Vol’jin as he approached, the thread wrapped around Tyrathan’s hand finding its match around Vol’jin’s. 

Tyrathan winced at the reminder of how he’d stayed away. “I thought I needed time.”

“You didn’t?”

“...Not as much as I took. I realized that...after….” He trailed off, studying Vol’jin. 

He looked good, certainly better than he had when he had died from the stories Tyrathan heard. In fact, he might have looked younger than he had when Tyrathan had met him, but still with that settled aspect to his demeanor he had gained in Pandaria. 

“I be missing you,” he whispered, surprising Tyrathan. “I’d been plotting everyday, ways to bring you back. Never went through with dem, didn’t want you being angry.”

Tyrathan raised his hand, reaching for Vol’jin. “We can’t make up the lost time, but we can still have more than this.”

“Bwonsamdi said. You be messing with forces you don’t be understanding. There be consequences for working with the Loa.”

“I find myself not really caring.”

Vol’jin chuckled and reached out in turn, catching Tyrathan’s hand in his. The shadows swirled around them, cold and insubstantial, but at the same time they seemed to drag at them, the whole of the shadowy world falling away into something else.

“Come back with me. Please. The Darkspears need you. The Horde needs you….I need you.”

“All you be having to do is ask, Tyrathan Khort. I be moving the worlds for you.”

Tyrathan sat up, gasping for air. He felt like he’d been drowning, like he should be coughing up liquid as he moved. Around him, Zandali flowed as the trolls tried to see how the ritual had gone. 

He turned towards the objects that had been lying next to him--gasping when in there place was Vol’jin, looking not much different than he had when they’d been nothing but their spirits in Bwonsamdi’s realm.

Concentrating, he realized the words tumbling out of excited trolls were welcomes and blessings, were thanks to the Loa, to Bwonsamdi, and to Tyrathan himself.

He met Vol’jin’s eyes, unable to look away.

“Bwonsamdi give you back to me in Pandaria, now he be giving me back to you.”

“A regular matchmaker,” Tyrathan deadpanned, which Vol’jin seemed to find hilarious. And his giddiness was catching, Tyrathan couldn’t stop the wide grin on his face, the mirth bubbling up inside. 

He finally, finally, threw his arms around Vol’jin, confirming that he was there, and real. With his head pressed against his chest, he could hear the steady thump of his heart, feel the rise and fall of his chest. He didn’t know how he’d manage to let go.


End file.
